


Keats and Yeats are On Your Side  (A Little Insecure: Culture Shock Remix)

by Aja



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-19 13:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10640376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja
Summary: “There are all these Muggle songs on the Wizarding Wireless Network these days, and they're all about love.”Or, The thrilling tale of how Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy culturally integrated their pants.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tigersilver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/gifts).
  * Inspired by ['... A Little Insecure'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/783555) by [tigersilver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver). 



> This fic is a remix of Tigersilver’s fic ‘... A Little Insecure’. Thanks to Oceaxe for the beta, and to Tigersilver for letting me play in your sandbox. Some lines are taken directly from the original Tigersilver fic and are quoted here without specific attribution; if anybody wants me to cite/identify them for you, just holler.

His first day on the job, Harry asks  _not_ to be given his own corner office right next to Kingsley’s, the kind usually reserved for senior Ministry officials with years of experience and not the youngest Auror in history. The positioning basically makes him look like some kind of... head deputy to the Minister, and everyone knows it; Rita Skeeter has a field day wondering if he’s become the Boy Who’s Addicted to Power. 

But Kingsley merely waves away his request and says, “Trust me — you’ll soon realize how much you’ll need it.”

His second day on the job, the letters begin arriving, and Harry is immediately grateful for the extra space.

There are thousands of them, from all across the Wizarding World: letters, packages, flowers, balloons, special orders from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Some of them are Howlers that explode in his face; but most of them, an endless litany of joy and gratitude that occasionally leaks onto the parchment in a bevvy of delayed magical tears, are letters thanking him for defeating Voldemort.

“I don’t know what to do with them all!” Harry protests to Kingsley on day three, when the letters are already crowding his desk and overflowing onto the floor of his office. “They never stop!”

Kingsley’s office is slightly bigger than Harry’s, but it’s also a dire vision of Harry’s future. It’s full of correspondences: shelves devoted to letters, packages and owls stacked neatly in the corners, with more arriving through the perpetually open window nearly every moment.

When Harry walks in, Kingsley is unrolling a poster of the cover of _Abbey Road_ and pinning it to his wall just above a copy of a bill promoting the Cultural Integration Act. Some of the richer purebloods have dubbed it The Infiltration, and as Kingsley has made it clear he’s going to do whatever he can to push it past the Wizengamot, they’ve ramped up the protesting and anti-lobbying. One of the letters on his desk must be a Howler, because just as Kingsley is smoothing out John Lennon’s head it explodes:

“—MUTTON-HEADED PEABRAIN OF A MINISTER! TRYING TO FORCE US TO ACCEPT INFERIOR MUGGLE ART AS IF IT WILL MAGICALLY MAKE MUGGLES EQUAL WITH WIZARDS! REAL WIZARDING FAMILIES WILL NEVER INTEGRATE WITH THESE HEATHENS AND YOU’LL DO BEST TO REMEMBER IT! DO YOU WANT TO FOSTER ANOTHER VOLDE—”

Kingsley finally gets his hands on the right envelope among the pile on his desk and shoves his wand down the envelope’s throat, causing it to go quiet with an indignant splutter. He shoots Harry a grimace over the mound of letters. Harry would feel worse about bothering him, taking up space in his well-trafficked office as Ministry admins and officials bustle in and out. But Kingsley — who had given Harry walk-in privileges, which Harry is vaguely aware normally go to a privileged few government bigwigs and Ministry staffers — only tosses the now-silent Howler into the basket marked ‘Auto-Reply’ and sends him a sharp look.

“You were saying?”

“Er,” says Harry. “I was complaining about getting so many letters.”

Kingsley laughs. Harry tries not to shove his hands in his pockets.

“It’s just,” he tries, “It doesn’t feel right. All these people are thanking me for defeating Voldemort, but I didn’t do it on my own. What about Hermione? What about Neville, and Mrs. Malfoy, and all the people who _died_?"

Kingsley sighs and puts his feet up on his desk, planting his well-polished shoes squarely atop a few envelopes. “Look, Harry,” he says. “No one is forgetting the sacrifices others made. But you’re the Boy Who Lived. You’ve always been a symbol.”

“Is that why I got fast-tracked through three years of Auror training in six weeks?” Harry says wryly.

Kingsley snorts. “You got fast-tracked because you already have more field experience than some Aurors twice your age, as you well know. And because I didn’t fancy putting you in with a class of new Aurors-in-training. Could you imagine trying to do your coursework in Stealth and Tracking or Concealment and Disguise alongside Harry Potter and his _invisibility cloak_?” 

“Oh,” says Harry, stung.

Kingsley smiles. “But,” he adds, “I won’t pretend that avoiding all the owls of shocked outrage that I was holding Harry Potter back from saving the kingdom wasn’t a bonus.”

Harry’s nose wrinkles in dismay, and Kingsley’s grin becomes a laugh. “You’re just going to have to get used to the fact that you’re a public figure — and a very, very well-liked one at that.” He consults one of the parchments in front of him and then scribbles something officious on it. “Which is why I’m assigning you an assistant.”

“What? No!” Harry can’t help but wrinkle his nose some more. “That’s the opposite of what I need.”

Kingsley raises an eyebrow at him. “What, are you going to tell me you intend to spend your valuable time here at work signing autographs?”

Harry blanches. “No! But... can’t I just ignore them all?”

Kingsley eyes him. “No,” he says sternly. “You may not.”

Harry’s jaw drops. Kingsley stands and walks over to him, hands him the file he’s just signed off on — the documentation on Harry’s new assistant, probably.

“Potter,” Kingsley says, “you have to remember, you’re a symbol of hope to the public, like it or not. These are people desperate to trust in their government again after the war. You, with your corner office and your public promotion to Auror, are a visible reminder that their trust is in good hands — that the Ministry still cares about them. Because _you_ still care about them. Which is why you — and your new assistant — are going to see to it that every letter gets a response.”

Harry swallows. “Yes, sir,” he says gloomily.

“And remember, Harry,” Kingsley adds. “This isn’t for you. It’s for them.”

Harry nods and turns to leave, but Kingsley says, “Oh, and would you mind?” and grabs one of the rolled-up posters next to his desk, apparently at random, and holds it out to Harry.

Harry takes the poster dubiously.

“Who better to help us culturally integrate than a Wizarding hero raised by Muggles?”

Harry fancies Kingsley’s grin is showing a bit too much teeth as he takes the poster.

When he gets back to his own office, he unrolls it, and can’t help making a face: it’s a portrait of Oscar Wilde with a quote beneath: "The very essence of romance is uncertainty." Below that is a slogan:  _Think of what we can learn! Support the Cultural Integration Act._

__

“Bit on the nose,” Harry mutters, but he hangs the poster behind his desk anyway.

Over the next few days, Kingsley passes out a few more posters, all apparently random, to Harry and his new assistant, Amirah. They hang Bob Marley next to Amirah’s desk to greet any visitors while Harry takes a fancy poster featuring a collection of Neil Gaiman novels. The WWN starts playing two hours of Muggle music every day and Harry not-so-subtly encourages Amirah to tune in and leave it playing while she’s on lunch break. He doesn’t think it’s doing much to promote intercultural whatever until he steps out for lunch one day and hears Priscilla, the daytime custodiwitch for his floor of the Ministry, singing "There's a Guy Works Down the Chip Shop Swears He's Elvis” as she spells the cobwebs from behind a statue of Grimalkin.

Between them, he and Amirah work out a system of autograph-signing: Harry writes out form responses for the various kinds of fan mail he’s received. Then Amirah takes them, sorts them by category, and spells duplicate copies whenever necessary. If a fan letter is particularly gushing, she’ll add in an autographed copy of a Harry Potter headshot.

“Must we?” Harry asks upon seeing it for the first time. The photo version of himself is grimacing and shuffling his feet.

Amirah replies that the Minister would appreciate it if Harry embraces his new role as public figure. “Besides,” she adds, pointing to the pile of photos that lie beside the even larger pile of envelopes. “The Ministry publicity office sent over about 5,000 of these, so might as well make sure they get to the people who want them, yeah?”

Once in awhile, a letter that requires a more personalized response will arrive, and she’ll set those aside for him. She also throws the Howlers away, which Harry appreciates. On the whole he’s quite chuffed about having her around — the letters have gone from a constant source of stress to something he hardly even notices anymore.

Or at least, they have until Draco Malfoy shows up, pointy and pale and gorgeous as ever.

He’s standing just outside Harry’s office, chatting to Amirah, wearing the kind of high-end, deep Slytherin green robes that scream unrepentance. Harry automatically thinks that Malfoy must be doing it to get a rise out of him before checking his kneejerk thoughts and reminding himself that whatever Malfoy’s fashion sense may be projecting, he’s done nothing but reinvent himself since the war, doing his best to come off as a reformed and fully assimilated member of society.

He’s assisted the Aurors in rounding up wayward Death Eaters. He’s contributed extensively to the effort to rebuild Hogwarts, both through financial donations and, so Harry hears from Hermione (who’s in regular touch with Madam Pince), through the funding of a special scholarship program for underprivileged Muggle-borns. He’s testified for the Wizengamot against numerous members of Voldemort’s inner circle, and even though Harry knows that was a transparent, failed effort on Malfoy’s part to jockey for Lucius Malfoy’s release from Azkaban, he credits him for it anyway.

Harry has wondered once or twice if maybe he’s crediting Malfoy for more than he should these days. Since the war, Malfoy has bought and become the proprietor of a tumble-down Knockturn Alley storefront and set it up as a repair shop for all sorts of Wizarding artifacts. One of Harry’s first assignments was to send a couple of covert operatives there to check out the place, and Malfoy himself. Instead of unearthing a trove of dark magic, they’d come back raving about Malfoy’s skill at carpentry and assembly. “He fixed my old Rememberall better than ever!” said one Auror, while the other Auror kept going on about Malfoy’s skill with moving parts, whatever that meant. Harry let it go. But he’s kept his eye on Malfoy over the months, and it’s true — his reform seems complete.

Which means that whatever’s brought him here must be legitimate business, so Harry checks his posture, clears his throat, and goes out into the foyer to meet him.

“Malfoy,” he begins, and then immediately halts, because Malfoy is holding one of Harry’s autographed photos in his hand and is laughing over it like they’re eleven years old again.

“‘Dear Fill-in-the-blank,’” Malfoy is reading through barely contained cut-off snickers, “‘Thank you for your support and carry on. Love, Harry.’ Oh, well done, Potter, well done. The Boy Who Lived For Fame, I see.”

Harry glares at Malfoy, or at least he does until he sees Amirah. One of the things he likes about Amirah is that she’s from somewhere in Australia and she’d never heard of Harry Potter until she showed up here. He likes that she doesn’t take him as seriously as anyone else, so when he sees that she’s laughing and cracking up, too, the absurdity of the situation dawns on him. After all, he _has_ been complaining for weeks that the photos are ridiculous. So he swallows his retort and says, in a calm tone he fancies Hermione would be proud of him for managing, “Don’t tell Rita Skeeter, would you, Malfoy? She’d never stop writing outraged think-pieces on my cult of celebrity.”

Malfoy looks up from scanning Harry’s embarrassed photograph and meets his eyes, sharp and alert as ever. “Well,” he says. “We all must sacrifice for the greater good, as Minister Shacklebolt puts it. I feel a great and persistent pity for you, Harry. Besides.” He flaps the photo. “This is probably a time-saver. I imagine everyone who has a functioning heartbeat is after you these days, and maybe some who haven’t.”

“I... I wouldn’t put it like that,” Harry says, a bit thrown.

“Oh,” smirks Amirah. “I would.”

Malfoy’s grin is beatific.

“Did you need something?” Harry asks, increasingly flustered.

“Oh, yes,” says Malfoy, and then he turns to Amirah. “I need to know what does a man have to do to get a special autographed photo from the great Harry Potter?” he bats his eyes at her shamelessly.

“Oh,” says Amirah. “You have to write a very heartfelt piece of fan mail.”

“Indeed,” says Malfoy.

“ _No_ ,” says Harry. “Amirah, he’s just pulling your leg, he doesn’t—”

“Nonsense, _Harry_ ,” says Malfoy. “That sounds like a worthwhile project. And after all, I was so very brilliant at writing doggerel, once upon a time.”

Harry doesn’t try not to stare at this. “Malfoy, you just nicknamed me ‘Potty’ and acted like you thought it was clever.”

“And it _worked_ , if you’ll recall, given the number of people who picked up on the insult.”

“Only you would think of using it as an insult to begin with,” says Harry, and before he can quibble over school history with Malfoy, the door to Kingsley’s office opens.

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy,” says Kingsley. “Thank you for stopping by on such short notice.”

“Not at all, Minister,” says Malfoy in a much different tone, and Harry feels his cheeks reddening, as though he’s the one who’s been caught out being immature.

“Do come in,” says Kingsley.

“Sure,” says Malfoy, and then, turning back to Amirah, he says, “If you don’t mind, may I borrow this?” He’s still holding Harry’s photograph. “I require a real Hero's company to inspire me.” And then he has the audacity to _wink_ at Harry on his way into Kingsley’s office.

“Unbelievable,” Harry manages after a moment.

“Oh, I’ll say,” says Amirah. Then she adds, “Pity he seems already spoken for,” and Harry turns red and splutters a bunch and goes to hide in his own office.

The first unsigned Owl appears two days later. It’s blank entirely, except for Harry's name written in ridiculous flowery writing with the ‘o’ turned into a pulsating red heart. An expertly crafted arrow pierces the heart, and the shaft has been drawn as a tiny broomstick, inked out in brilliant, er, Slytherin green.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Harry mutters, and promptly bins the thing. Malfoy’s owl hoots in protest before taking off in a huff.

The second one arrives promptly at noon the very next day—and this time the owl passes right over Harry’s head and into the outer office, landing on Amirah’s desk.

“Oh ho,” she says. “What’s this?” And Harry has to leave his desk to come grudgingly feed Malfoy’s owl and attempt to wrest the note away from her.

_Dear Potter_ , it reads. _You are my personal hero. I am very serious. So deathly serious I've committed it to writing._

_ P.S. If this fails to be sufficiently heartfelt, I can do better. _

“Do not respond to these,” Harry instructs Amirah.

“You’re smiling, though,” says Amirah.

“It’s just a nervous tick,” Harry scowls, and shuts himself inside his office for the rest of the day.

They come daily after that, each more elaborate and sarcastic than the last.  _Dear Potter_ , reads one. _I find myself at a loss to articulate the depth and breadth and very long height of my feelings for you, and so I turn to the poets for inspiration. In the words of Burt Bacharach, keep smiling, keep shining!_

This is followed by an enchanted heart emoji; underneath that is added, ( SUPPORT THE CULTURAL INTEGRATION ACT!)

_I can hear you when you’re shouting on paper, you know. You don’t have to underline everything to death_ , Harry doesn’t write back. 

One arrives as a Howler, and upon opening it Harry is treated to a rousing rendition of “You Are My Sunshine.” Once finished, the Howler yells, “Support the Cultural Integration Act!” and promptly explodes. Harry gets ink all over his fingers, but he’s sniggering when Kingsley comes out to congratulate him on spreading the love of Muggle literature.

_ How doth the little Gryffindor improve his shining tale_? Reads one. _He swallows up his pride and sends his very best fan mail!_  And Harry almost sends back a note congratulating Malfoy on having expanded his poetic horizons before he thinks better of it.

The one that finally does him in is a slim, lovely white parchment lily, enchanted to unfold into a full-blown cabbage rose. “You’d better come deal with this one yourself,” Amirah calls to him when it arrives, and Harry takes one look at it in all its glory and cracks up even before he reads the text:

_You are my flower, Harry. I cannot deny you are. But I shan't press it._

“Are you okay?” Amirah asks, when Harry slides to the floor, laughing so hard he can barely breathe. He waves a hand and holds the letter out to her, and she finishes reading it aloud, eyebrows drifting towards her hairline.

“‘I think it may be hero worship I feel’,” she reads, and now she’s cracking up, too. “‘God knows I have a great deal to fall down upon my knees for, at least when it comes to you.’” Harry covers his face and attempts to recover.

“Fine,” he says after what feels like a good half hour or so of sitting on the floor quivering. “Fine, Malfoy, you win.”

He tells himself that he isn’t over-thinking this when he responds, that he’s giving Malfoy exactly what he’s asked for, but mostly he’s just laughing as he grabs one of his accursed headshots and scribbles a reply on top of his own scandalized face:

_ Malfoy, _

_ If you’re so eager to get on your knees for me, that can be arranged. - HP _

_P.S. In the words of Seal, you remain my power, my pleasure, my pain_. _ Support the Cultural Integration Act! _

He adds a bunch of Cultural Integration Act flyers into the mix and sends them off with the photograph, still cackling.

“You have absolutely the strangest correspondence of any office I’ve ever worked in,” says Amirah.

  
  


 

“So now it’s a game of gay chicken?” she asks the next day when Harry, brow furrowed, is hesitating, about to scribble an answer on top of the same photograph, now full of his own chicken scratch next to Malfoy’s elegant handwriting. 

_Potter_ , reads Malfoy’s response, 

_ Then it’s a date. Thursday night, 8:00pm, Stregone’s? _

Harry huffs. “No,” he scowls. “Of course not.” And then, “I’m going out,” and he caps the marker and marches out, still carrying the photo.

“Malfoy,” he says, when he more or less barges into Malfoy’s shop on Knockturn Alley. He has a moment to spare to be vaguely surprised at how nearby it is to the Ministry. He’d be more comfortable, he thinks, if Malfoy were at least a stone’s throw away, out of sight and mind rather than right next to him, always under his skin; but of course, nothing has ever been that simple when it comes to the Malfoys, least of all this one.

Draco is bending over a strange-looking contraption that appears to be a cross between a cuckoo clock and a vanishing cabinet. There’s no one else in the shop, but judging from the litany of orders behind the clerk’s counter, there’s no shortage of business to be had. Draco is frowning at the insides of the machine, and he doesn’t so much as twitch when he hears Harry’s voice.

“Just a moment, Potter, I’ve almost got this,” he calls, and Harry, eyes narrowed, stalks to the back of the shop to watch him work.

“I can feel you glaring at me, you know,” Draco says conversationally, lips pursed as he extracts a splinter of wood from the innards of the clock-cabinet-thing. He blows on the gears and the artifact hums a little in response. He frowns.

“Are you actually asking me out?” Harry demands. “Like on a date?”

Draco pauses and huffs out a laugh. “I told you to wait. Following instructions as well as ever, I see,” he mutters. “I don’t know, Potter, am I?” He pulls another sliver of wood from the cabinet and then reinserts it in a different location. This time the gears rotate once and appear to click into place before grinding to a halt. “Is that what you want?”

“You started this whole thing!” Harry says.

Draco sighs and straightens up from the cabinet. “Well, then, fine,” he says, sounding exasperated, which is completely unfair under the circumstances. “I would enjoy going out on the town with you, Potter. I’d enjoy having a chance to talk and catch up for once outside of a Wizengamot hearing. And of course it doesn’t have to be a date if you don’t want to be. You’re under no obligation to finish it just because I started it as a joke.” 

Harry leans against the cabinet, which is probably rude, and Draco’s darkening expression speaks volumes. “You want to hang out with me at a fancy restaurant for a couple of hours just _talking_ ,” he says.

“Why not?” Draco scowls. “Talking's fine. Talking's fantastic. I _like_ talking." 

" _People_ will talk,” Harry blurts. “Do you really want to make headlines for dating the Boy Who Lived?” 

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Malfoy returns, “making headlines for my love life would be a step up from making headlines as a failed Death Eater.” His voice has gone suddenly icy in a way that strikes Harry as uncomfortably familiar — he’d forgotten that voice over the past few years. “If it makes you feel better to think of it as shameless opportunism, Potter, suit yourself. Dating you would improve my social standing more quickly than any other move I could make, wouldn’t it?”

Harry thinks back to Draco standing holding his photograph that day in the Ministry. This has all been entirely impromptu until now; he knows this. And it’s been _fun_.

“You didn’t set out to do this as some kind of social power grab,” he says, and Draco’s expression softens.

“I am a Slytherin, Potter, still,” he says, smiling wryly. “Realists to the core, my house.”

Harry is still leaning against the cabinet, but he relaxes against it even further, stretching out and flexing his muscles. “And you’d never be so stupid as to fail to press your advantage when you have it,” he says. “In love or war.”

Draco’s eyes darken. “Never stupid, Potter,” he says. “Just not particularly lucky.“ His lips part, and then he swallows, and Harry drinks in the movement at the hollow of his throat. “Or am I wrong about that?”

He steps in closer, bracketing Harry with his thighs, and Harry lets him, marveling at the way his heart thumps faster just at the idea that Draco Malfoy is standing this close to him, elegant and alive and thrumming, as always, with barely contained emotion.

“What if we made it now?” Harry hears himself whisper, amazed at how breathless he sounds. “Let’s start that date right now and see where we end up.”

Draco laughs, and he’s just as breathless as Harry, and Harry can barely think straight for the crazy wonder of it all. “I don’t know if you’re ready for where we could end up right now, Potter,” he says.

“Try me,” Harry says, and then he doesn’t wait before leaning in and kissing Malfoy’s mouth, his stupid, plush, infuriatingly narrow mouth. Malfoy’s breath catches and then he opens and kisses back, and Harry’s hand is in Draco’s hair, and this is ridiculous and absurd and Harry doesn’t want to stop.

“Fuck,” Draco gasps when they finally do break apart, and then the clock behind him suddenly bursts into song, doors flapping and whistling, and Harry laughs and pulls him in for another, even longer kiss that ends with him panting and leaning against the cabinet, Draco grinding into him, hands tucked into Harry’s trousers.

“I take it back,” Draco says eventually. “I don’t know if _I'm_ ready for this.”

“I suspect you’ll have time to adjust,” Harry says wryly.

Draco’s lips quirk. “If you think that’s true, you’ve been paying even less attention than I thought all these years.”

Harry says, dumbly, “Huh?” and Draco laughs. Then he laughs again, and it turns a bit shrill.

“You know,” he says, “I blame the damn Cultural Integration Act for all of this. No, really, I do. Not just because it’s why Kingsley called me in that day—”

“You what?” says Harry.

“Oh,” says Draco, distractedly, “Kingsley wants me to do some kind of publicity tour for the thing, says it’ll help promote cultural integration among purebloods if I do it.”

“Sounds like Kingsley,” says Harry.

“But anyway, there are all these Muggle songs on the Wizarding Wireless Network these days, and they're all about love. And I keep thinking.” He looks chagrined, and Harry kind of has to kiss the side of his mouth. “Why is it that Wizards can't say what I want to say to you, Potter?”

“What is it you want to say?” Harry more or less whispers this against the side of Draco’s throat.

“So much,” Draco says. “So fucking much, and it all feels cheesy and cliched and I hear it everywhere in all of these _love songs_ , and it’s horribly unfair.”

“Why don’t you try,” Harry says. “And I won’t judge you if you have to sing it.”

Draco laughs, a bit pained this time. “Fine,” he says. “How about this. I don't want anyone else to look at you the way I do, ever.”

“Not much of a challenge, there,” Harry says, feeling a bit overwhelmed. His own laughter is nervous, but it’s the first time in a long time he can remember not feeling vaguely embarrassed around Draco.

“I mean it,” Draco says. “Broken noses aside. And here’s another thing. I don’t know why your people are all so obsessed with the fucking Smiths, but I keep thinking, oh, god, my chance has come at last, but then a strange fear grips me and I just can’t ask.”

“Oh,” says Harry, all the air leaving him at once.

“So maybe I wasn’t completely joking,” says Draco, turning in for another kiss.

Harry gives it to him, and then answers, “Maybe I wasn’t either.”

“So,” Draco says, a grin forming on his crystalline features, “you weren’t lying about wanting me on my knees?”

Harry’s grin turns sharp and feral to match. “Let’s just say Slytherins aren’t the only opportunists.”

  
  
  
  


In the end, the Cultural Integration Act is a huge success, despite the hand-wringing of certain Pureblood Wizarding families and the scandalized op-eds of Rita Skeeter. The Ministry largely credits the act’s success to the publicity campaign launched by Deputy Head Auror Potter and prominent socialite Mr. Draco Malfoy.

The tongue-in-cheek nature of Malfoy’s personal poster, featuring a scantily clad photoshoot over a swathe of lyrics from the Kinks, makes it an instant hit among the public — far more than Potter’s own poster, which features a sedate photo and a set of quotes from children’s authors like Roald Dahl and A.A. Milne and P.L. Travers.

But by orders of magnitude, the biggest hit is the poster the two of them star in together: a tantalizing, frankly shocking pose featuring Potter decked out in a Muggle football uniform, his arm slung provocatively around Malfoy, who’s clad in full Quidditch gear. Malfoy has his hand somewhere behind Potter, and the two of them are exchanging glances which just barely managed to avoid the censor department, and which had to be frozen permanently in place for the good of the populace.

In the background, over their heads, floats a quote from Oscar Wilde:

_ Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future. _

 

**Support the Cultural Integration Act!**


End file.
